SpiritBlog

On that wind-ravaged hill

On that wind-ravaged hill in the barren wilderness
He keeps His eyes ever vigilant for the One.

His hands weep with sweat as he grips the tall staff of the gray oak
Cut from the gnarled tree once full of life.  
His white knuckles reveal the fear roiling deep inside.

The trail is empty of the anticipated passage of his enemy.
The specter of possibility assaults his psyche and melts his
Empty courage.  

No, the feared One will not be Neo of legend, able to pierce the darkness
With subtle hairs of acuity using Knowledge to
Dominate sin and Rationality to overcome weakness.

Nor will the Homerian hero reborn appear
Ready for rescue of the weakened wanderers of the wilderness
Whose hearts are driven bloodless by sickening guilt.

He knows who He will be.  He is deeply afraid.
He can taste the fear on the tip of the tongue that has
Spread such acrimonious displeasure on His minions.

His raging fear is itself a stranger to Him.

There was a time when Fear dared not enter into this place,
At least not to attack this sentinel of the Wilderness.
His specialty was to distribute his “designer fear” freely to any and all takers.

And there were many takers.
Bent low upon road, attempting to hide among the brambles,
They would approach the crest of His hill unseen.

He would see them, of course, and Know them.
“You!”  He would shout.  “You have sinned!”
“You will pay the Price!”  

With shrill laughter His cracked and dung-soiled boot
Would thrust the shriveled figure downward
To its inevitable fate.

***

But now He is the target.
His Fear sinks to depths un-mined by travelers on this
Well-beaten path.

He seeks Him in the face of each passing supplicant
His enthusiasm for condemnation lessening
With each passing hour.

He knows His time has come
Understanding little of the why of it
But knowing His sin is the greatest.

The path is not so dark, now.
The grays are not so gray.
A Man stands at the end of the path, ready to mount the crest.

He Knows the Man, as he Knows all who come.
“I know you!” He says.  Yet the Man is not afraid.

“You have sinned!”  He begins to shake with fear.
There is no reply.  Only the faint stirring of a sweet wind.
The Man approaches the crest.

“You will pay the Price!” He says, trembling uncontrollably.
 The wind swirls around him in a lover’s embrace.
The Man stands on the crest of the hill with Him.

He does not understand.  He casts about seeking a familiar
Anchorage in the growing storm enveloping his fear.
“Move away!”  

His boot tries to help but the boot’s dung becomes
Glutinous and he no longer can move, feel, touch.

“I have come for you,” the wind carries this to Him.
Did the Man speak? “Come with me.”
The wind lightly settles on his anxious brow.  It cools Him.

“Why? ,,, I cannot … I am needed … I cannot … I sin … Why?”
The wind lifts him up.  It carries him to the Man.
The wind speaks again. “Come with me, I give you life.”

“But, why me?  Why now?  My sin is so great!”
The wind breathes laughter into his heart
Sunlight breaks onto brambles and turns gray into rainbow.

He hears, “Sin is nothing to Me.  You are a creature of God.
You are loved for that.  You are forgiven for that.  
You are given Grace for that.”

“I see inside your heart.  In there is Love.
That is enough.”

***

On that wind-blessed hill in the wilderness,
He stands ready.

Each walker seeking God talks to Him.
Each walker discovers the love inside themselves.

He Knows them.  He Loves them.  He Forgives them.

 

 

Reality

The bombs ravage Baghdad. 
In the wake of the destruction
Our souls wail
Our humanity shreds
Our reality fades to a gross fantasia of imaginings.

Salvador Dali becomes for us the most real of observers of the world.

Trust

She talked to me today.

Not a profound moment when enlightenment pierces the fog and the
Road to Tarsus becomes the lasting symbol of transformation;
No, it was subtle and might of been missed,
Except I was listening for once.

Perhaps she knew that the time had come for clarity
(Our lives had been fog-bound of late)
And perhaps she cared about the muddle into which we had gotten ourselves.
Whatever it was it rang a bell in her which brought her to me after all of these years.

I've asked her for help before, you know.  I've done so all my life.
What I never realized was that I had the power to help her help me.
Through my love and care for her, through opening up.
She was free to do the same.

The Spirit touches my soul on the cool sun-drenched afternoon.
A visitor beckons me to sit beside her in the shade of an oak.

"Where are you?" I ask,"Look inside yourself for the answer," she whispers.
The cool breeze brings the scent of winters past as I gaze inward.
"What must I do to reach you?  Why have you always been so hard to love?"

The silence breaks my heart.  I know that there is terrible pain in the answer.
I sense Him sitting next to me.  His arm is around me. She is on my other side. 
"You have to Trust," she says, "Learn it now, not when we did."

I  turn from the cold wind.  Taking up the unfamiliar mantle I step ahead,
Finding  warmth In the comfort of the memory of their loving embrace.

Job well done

He stands on the top of the barren, rock-strewn hill
Looking over his kingdom. Delighting at the wasteland before him,
His crooked grin turns to laughter as his vultures pick
Through the morbid ruin of skin, bone and entrails curling through
The filthy detritus of human existence left there by the our pathetic
Ability to never learn.

“At least 80 Iraqis die in bombings.”
"Seventy die in coordinated attack on mosque.”
“100 die from suicide attack.”
“Tens of thousands of civilians have been murdered and thousands of women raped in Sudan’s western region of Darfur . . . .”
 “Hundreds dead in Iraq during Ashoura.”
"Three die in first attack on Israel in months.”
“Attackers killed 40 Shi'ite Muslim pilgrims.”

He pauses in self-satisfaction.  His work is going well.

News

The Hudson News arrests on the tip of the hummingbird wing
Opening for the fleeting moment his wealth of energy to sing
A song of gratitude and joy at the top of the tree leafing
Elegant verdant signs of hope making rainbows ring

Colors of the Spirit.

 

 

 

 

Monday, January 22nd, 2007

Hudson Hoppin’

Hudson hoppin' freely falling
Down snow swept streets toward a future charged with hope
Barely contained within this newly acquired couture.

What is the future but a reflection of wordless incantations
Becoming vague reality or more likely purple disappointment?

He walks toward that future praying that this time
It will enliven his senses and bring radiance to the white fields.
The lens has been prepared.
Will it refract life or myth?

His Hudson hoppin' carries within the Spirit of light and life
Touching the crystalline moisture as it descends to its transient end.

 

 

 

Celebrate!

The luminescent soul radiates
The sheen of forgiveness and forgetfulness!

Our spirit soars in rapturous connectivity –
The welcomed spirit embrace
Once lost amongst the brambles of
Distorted memories and cobwebbed hate
Envelops us in sweet-scented
Lilac and dew-drenched columbine.

 

 

 

 

 

The Source speaks and the prodigal spirit
Drinks in the blessed restoration of wholeness.
A jubilant pulse reverberates throughout
All who recognize this gift of Grace within them.

We turn toward the Source and lift our eyes.
Our spirit leaps in revelry at the ecstasy of Knowing.

I have been to the river and dipped my hand
God, having washed my hands and feet, has
Wrapped me in a towel of Forgiveness and Hope
And made me whole again!